


Softer Love

by shirogiku



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anne's Potty Mouth, Awkward Kissing, F/F, Girls Kissing, Idelle Is Worried About Max, Mentions of Canon Past Rape/Non-Con, Multi, Season/Series 02, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6554179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max decorates, Idelle tries to have Max's back, and Anne just wants to be left alone. Two out of three might just work out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softer Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [academy_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/academy_x/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [academy_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/academy_x/pseuds/academy_x) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Idelle/Anne - set in season 2 right after Max and Anne get together - Idelle approaches Anne late in the evening hoping to understand the other woman better. They talk and maybe kiss.
> 
> "I'm curious. Is it all women or just Max?" Idelle asks.
> 
>  **A/N:** Max demanded some actual screen time here, is anyone surprised?
> 
> The painting mentioned in the story is [this one.](http://www.artchive.com/web_gallery/reproductions//213501-214000/213722/size1.jpg)

“ _I strove at first with all my reason against the irresistible lustre of her eyes: and at the first assaults of love, I gave him not a welcome to my bosom, but like slaves unused to fetters, I grew sullen with my chains, and wore them for your sake uneasily. I thought it base to look upon the mistress of my friend with wishing eyes; but softer love soon furnished me with arguments to justify my claim, since love is not the choice but the face of the soul, who seldom regards the object lov’d as it is, but as it wishes to have it be, and then kind fancy makes it soon the same._ "

— Aphra Behn, _Love-Letters Between a Nobleman and His Sister_

 

“Anne, _ma chérie_ , will you help me with something?”

 

Oh, she knew _that_ tone alright. Jack would say, ‘Anne, darling, there is a _minor_ problem that needs to be dealt with before it grows into a major problem for both of us,’ and she would ask: ‘Which one?’

 

Meaning: ‘Which one do I have to kill?’

 

“Just ‘cause we’re fucking don’t mean-” She was brought short by the sight of another whore standing right behind Max.

 

“No, no, not because of that.” Max drew closer, reaching for Anne’s hand. With her fancy yellow gown so stark against the red curtains, she looked like a goddamn painting of herself. “I am asking for your opinion as the new owner of this fine establishment.”

 

 _Jack_ was the new owner. Anne just wanted to have a corner to herself, where nobody would bother her when she was not at sea.

 

“They say decorating is a man’s business,” Max went on, undeterred, “but I disagree. I do not _dislike_ what we already have here per se, but I would add, shall we say, a _personal_ touch.” She put on her most disarming smile. “And that is a job for the three of us, I believe.”

 

Idelle was watching Anne from over Max’s shoulder as if she was a stray rabid dog. And yet, she failed to stop Max from pulling Anne to her feet and then along into the shady market alleyways.

 

Max talked ceaselessly of paints and colours and other schemes, dropping the name ‘Charlotte’. A whore who could draw, now that was something. Such talk couldn’t have been more lost on Anne if it had been _entirely_ in French. She was minding their steps - while the hens were busy fussing over their hens’ business, someone had to watch their backs, and she wasn’t seeing any other contenders.

 

She tensed at Max calling out her name again. “What do you think?” Max’s hand was sliding up and down a swath of fabric in a manner that couldn’t _not_ be deliberate.

 

Anne didn’t give a shit _,_ how difficult could that be to understand?

 

Idelle rolled her eyes, to which Anne blurted out: “What’s it for?”

 

“New curtains.” The next thing she knew, Max had already maneuvered her to feel the fabric, murmuring about its soft texture.

 

Texture, what texture? It would be gathering dust and moths before the week was over.

 

“What would you hang in _your_ house?” Idelle butted in. “ _Do_ tell. Sailcloth? Salted cod? Or maybe severed heads?”

 

“Idelle!” Max warned, before amending hurriedly: “Hats. Anne loves hats. Isn’t that right, Anne?”

 

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” she muttered. “I’ve never _had_ a house to begin with.” She turned away so she wouldn’t see their reactions. “But if I did, I’d have bead curtains.”

 

Max’s French sounded suspiciously like ‘excellent’ now, and much to Anne’s dismay, she ran with that, marching past the rest of the cloth merchants and over to a bead seller for a custom order. Somehow, when she did ask, Anne mumbled a simple ‘alright’, still keeping her eyes anywhere but on Max.

 

The fucking paintings were even worse. La Casa de Cunt always got all the best ones, but now that the trade was in such a state of flux, useless items of fancy were flooding the streets, the prices on them plunging down dramatically. Nobody in their right mind would spend coin on what couldn’t be quickly converted back into it.

 

Nobody but Max, who believed this to be the ideal time to shop for art. “Ah, Watteau!”

 

“Why’s it so funny-shaped?” was Idelle’s first question. “Shouldn’t it be square?”

 

It depicted a woman asleep. Ivory skin without a single blemish, fat arms and small, rounded breasts. Her pale body seemed to illuminate the brooding landscape in the background. Above her loomed a dark man with a goat’s horns, clearly about to rape her - and the stupid dairy maid was complaining that the painting was _oval_ -shaped.

 

“The shape matches the composition,” Max explained in a patient tone. “Just look at her pose.”

 

It looked pretty damned uncomfortable - like she was about to slide off, her left arm already dangling in the air. Her head was resting on the left edge, her neck twisted at an awkward angle so her face was on full display. Her legs were also all bent up to form the artistic curve that Max was going on about.

 

“Did you _have_ to bring geometry into this?”

 

Max blinked innocently. “You need Math to sail, _non_?”

 

 _Why_ had it sounded like ‘Max’ instead? “How do you even know so much about this shit?” Who had taught her? Hold on, Anne already knew the answer to that - and wished that she didn’t.

 

“Max always pays attention.” Anne kept frowning at her as she continued: “This painting is a scene from a Greek myth. Zeus turns himself into a satyr and seduces a nymph called Antiope. Nymphs are symbols of female desire, while satyrs are their male counterparts, so together, they make up a pleasing whole.”

 

“Don’t look a thing like _female desire_ to me. It looks like she hasn’t got a clue.” A vague sick feeling had been gathering in Anne’s gut.

 

“Or maybe she is merely pretending to be so unaware, to arouse his passion.”

 

“More the fool her.” Anne squinted to see if Antiope, by any chance, had a knife stashed under that cloth of hers.

 

“Why is there an abyss?” Idelle wondered.

 

“ _Très bien_ , that is a _very_ good question. This abyss signifies desire. We all fear it deep down.” But her eyes were on Anne specifically.

 

“I say it’s a warning: don’t sleep where they can find ya.” She moved on before Max could buy the horrible thing.

 

For all her soft-spoken, faux genteel demeanour, Max could haggle like a fishwife - only to give that same fruit to some barefoot brat peering at her with hungry eyes. _Nice_ children were a rarity in Nassau - pickpockets, the lot of them, or worse, spies.

 

Max looped her arms through Anne and Idelle’s. “Isn’t this lovely? We should do it more often.”

 

“Over a dead body,” Anne muttered. Not necessarily hers.

 

As the afternoon wore into the evening, the whorehouse filled with all the usual satyrs. Anne gravitated to her private nook, where she speared an apple with her knife and watched the juice trickle down the blade pensively. This was the art that she _could_ understand.

 

Idelle appeared in the doorway, armed with two vases.

 

“The fuck do you want?”

 

“Right, about that.” The dairy maid weighed the vases in her hands. “This one, or the other one?”

 

Anne took a very pointed bite of the apple, but far from fucking off, Idelle took a seat - as far away from her as possible, as if that would make a difference should Anne decide to take a bite out of _her_ next.

 

“Did I fucking say you’re welcome here?”

 

“ _May_ I?”

 

“No.”

 

Idelle perched herself on the low table instead. “Actually, I’m curious.”

 

“That’s your problem, ain’t it?”

 

 _Women_. Anne was stuck with them, so they thought that they could come to her now with their womanly things. Well, she wanted none of that, none of Max’s playing house, and the sooner they learnt to deal with it, the safer their own hides.

 

“Is it all women or just Max?”

 

Anne’s first impulse was to go for the throat. But Max wouldn’t approve of that - _why the fuck should it matter what Max did or didn’t approve of_ \- so it had to be the next best thing. After a brief but surprisingly violent tug-of-war, the floor was covered in broken shards of pottery.

 

“Max won’t like this,” Idelle murmured, hitching up her skirts and crouching down to gather the pieces.

 

Cursing under her breath, Anne tried to do the same before the whore cut herself and accused her of deliberate assault. “Can it be put together again?”

 

“Probably not.” While Anne was struggling to remember if she had seen a single broom around here, Idelle surprised her with: “You haven’t got a clue, have you?”

 

“‘bout what?” She sure wasn’t interested in this one, or it would have been too much like Jack’s worst jokes.

 

“Is Max special to you or not?”

 

“What are you driving at?” she demanded.

 

Idelle swallowed nervously. “Men, she fucks. Tells them stories. Turns their heads. But with women, she…” Idelle paused, looking past Anne. “She is different. Softer. Gentler. Like warm water.”

 

That was already more information about Max and Idelle’s relationship than she had ever asked for.

 

“When the nights get long, we find comfort wherever we can.” As Idelle met Anne’s eyes,  behind the apprehension, Anne glimpsed a sharp edge. Not like hers, but dangerous in its own way. “Your partner keeps asking if she is good enough for you, but I wonder: are _you_ good for her? Are you softer with her? Or do you use her to vent out your frustrations like everybody else does?”

 

Anne’s hands quivered, and then it was her with a bleeding cut. She sucked her finger into her mouth, trying to block out the noise in her head.

 

Idelle squared her shoulders, rolling out those ridiculous jiggly bits of hers like cannons. “I’m the closest thing Max has ever _had_ to a friend, and I’m fucking sick of keeping quiet.”

 

“She’s your Madame,” Anne pointed out, slowly.

 

“She knows what she’s doing now. But _I_ knew her before.”

 

So there were things about Max that were off limits to Anne. That was fine by her. _All_ of Max would be too fucking much for her anyway.

 

But one question wouldn’t bloody stop eating at her: “Why’d she do it?”

 

She could have _left_. She wouldn’t have needed anyone’s help with that. She could have been in Jamaica… a what? Port whore? Or a lucky innkeeper's wife? If that could be called luck.

 

“You say you’re her friend, but where _were_ you on that night? And why the fuck didn’t you stop her?”

 

Idelle glared at her. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you! Blame it all on Max, why don’t you?” She flinched away without finishing the rant.

 

Hard truths, truths that cut deeper than any shards. Anne wasn’t even nearly drunk enough for them.

 

“Nah, I don’t blame it on her,” she forced out. “I’m angry at her ‘cause it keeps me from being angry at _me_. For having been one of them.”

 

Had she rescued Max because somebody had to do it, or because even then, she had wanted to have Max all to herself? Did she want Max now _because_ she had rescued her? She hated this, hated having to wonder.

 

“I had no idea!” Idelle was staring at Anne wonderingly. “I had no idea you _care_ about her.”

 

“Well, I don’t!”

 

Idelle got up, a mean little smile forming on her lips. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met, Anne Bonny. No wonder you’re so scared of actually talking to people.”

 

“I’ll make you eat your words, _whore_!”

 

Idelle’s shoe crunched on a stray shard in her hasty retreat. “That’s your main occupation, isn’t it, _dog_?”

 

That gave her a pause. She would only be proving Idelle’s point, wouldn’t she? Anne Bonny, lashing out right and left because she didn’t fucking know any better.

 

Sneaky bitch.

 

“I _can_ be soft,” she snarled.

 

“Oh, yeah? _Prove_ it.” With some kind of reckless daring, Idelle pointed at her own mouth.

 

“I don’t have to prove anything to you.” It took all her restraint to keep it quick and painless. “There, and don’t ever pull this shit again, or you’ll regret it.”

 

Idelle grimaced. “You’re a terrible kisser, has anyone ever told you that? It was like kissing a salt fish!”

 

Anne yanked her back towards herself by the lacing. “Go on pissing me off, and _you’ll_ be the fish.”

 

Idelle glanced down between them. “Do you like tits, then?” she strained out.

 

“Nah.” She let go, allowing Idelle to breathe. “They’re too soft.”

 

She didn’t like soft things. Except Max. But Max was soft like the water was soft, the current would pull you under if you weren’t careful.

 

“Kiss me like you would kiss _her_ ,” Idelle said. “And then maybe, just maybe I’ll buy it.”

 

Not wasting time on more pointless arguing, Anne closed her eyes and tilted her head a bit, pressing their lips together. Max’s mouth felt and tasted completely different, and its _texture_ had invaded Anne’s thoughts. She couldn’t kiss anyone else like she would kiss Max, not even Jack. Especially not Jack.

 

Idelle sighed against her mouth, holding onto her arms. It was a very small sigh, but it still made Anne smirk in triumph.

 

“See? _Soft_.”

 

Idelle brushed her thumb along Anne’s lower lip before she could swat it away. “There’s more to you than knives, who would have thought?” She stepped away. “People with broken hearts do all sorts of foolish things.”

 

Had Max _wanted_ to be rescued? No, that was a stupid question. But had she wanted to be hurt so badly that it would drown out the other pain? Had she wanted to die instead?

 

“Oh,” Idelle added, “and then there’s her pride. She always pays her debts. I just wish she’d known what she was getting herself into.”

 

She really hadn’t, had she? She had thought that she could have it her own way. “Just so we’re clear: I ain’t ashamed of having got her out.” The only thing that she was ashamed of was that there had been a need for it in the first place.

 

It wasn’t the answer that either of them was looking for, but it would have to do.

 

Idelle considered her again. “ _Good_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Consider:
> 
> \-- Eleanor teaching Max about Art, while Max does her best to Distract her (basically smb write this teacher mode!Eleanor kink);
> 
> \-- pre-series, Anne catches herself looking at Max & Eleanor together, Max notices and snogs the hell out of Eleanor just because;
> 
> \-- bonus: Max stealing Eleanor's key ring and refusing to tell where she's hidden it until Eleanor agrees to go on a picnic with her.


End file.
